Into the Woods
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Nick takes a break from his urban lifestyle, only to find himself in an alternate universe filled with witches, enchanted cottages, and Kipling.


Preface:  
  
Inspired by the Fractured Fairy Tale Challenge, this story grabbed me  
by the throat and wouldn't let go until I had typed it. I have no idea  
what that means in the Grand Scheme of Things, except that perhaps I  
should get a firmer grasp on Real Life.  
  
I like Kipling, really I do, but not in quantity. His is an art meant  
to be sipped, not gulped, so don't get angry with Nick if he seems  
unappreciative. Put yourself in his shoes.  
  
Explicit and candid feedback always welcomed. Enjoy!  
  
==============================================  
  
Into the Woods  
A Fractured Fairy Tale Challenge  
By Nancy Kaminski  
(c) October 2000  
  
Sometimes even an urbanly-inclined vampire like Nicholas Knight can  
get tired of the rush and hubbub of city life. And on this particular  
evening the noise, smell, and traffic of downtown Toronto (usually a  
most civil place, if somewhat crowded) became too much for him. He  
felt cramped, frustrated, and fed up. It didn't help that he had hit a  
red light at every single intersection in his stop-and-start journey  
across town.  
  
He sat in the Caddy fuming at yet another red light while the late  
rush-hour traffic crept by. Rush hour, he thought. What a misnomer! It  
was just dusk, the beginning of his day, but short of abandoning his  
enormous car and flying, it felt like most of it would be spent  
watching vehicles inch their way through the urban canyons.  
  
"Screw it all!" he said savagely to himself. "I'm outta here!" And  
with that decision, he pulled into an underground garage whose  
driveway conveniently happened to be just in front of the Caddy's  
nose. He yanked the ticket out of the dispensing machine before its  
synthetic voice could finish saying "Please...take the ticket," and  
wedged the land cruiser across two parking spaces, which were also  
conveniently located on the first level. Ha! he thought, at least my  
parking luck hasn't given out!  
  
Once on foot, he sneered at the motorists stuck in their stationary  
cars and sped off at vampire-speed. In the gathering gloom, the faint  
blur of his passing wasn't visible to even the keenest observer. Only  
the panicked flurries of pigeons marked his passage down the street.  
  
As soon as he reached a darker part of town he paused to consider what  
he would do. He looked around indecisively. East over the lake? No,  
too damp. South to Niagara? Also too damp, not to mention noisy. West?  
Too flat. North?  
  
Since it was the only direction left that didn't have any major  
objections, he nodded. Yes. North. To the woods. Peace. Quiet. Trees.  
No traffic.  
  
He smiled. Yes. The woods.  
  
Two hours later he was strolling along a deer path through pine and  
aspen. It wasn't the forest of his youth (but then, what was? There  
was hardly any primeval forest left in the Northern Hemisphere) but it  
was wonderfully calming. A full October moon shone down between the  
yellow aspens. Occasionally a maple glowed red and orange amid the  
dark green pines. The ground was fragrant with fallen leaves and moss.  
Far away he could hear the murmuring of a brook and the occasional  
stirring of underbrush caused by the passing of a deer.  
  
Gradually he felt the knot of tension and frustration in his stomach  
relax. In fact, Nick was so relaxed he barely noticed the ripple in  
the air as he crossed a small clearing.  
  
But suddenly the woods felt deeper, darker, and older. The air, which  
had smelled of crisp ripe apples and decaying leaves a minute ago, was  
warmer and more humid. Puzzled, Nick stopped and looked around. The  
woods were still pine and aspen, but now he noticed there were huge  
oaks mixed in. And all the trees looked bigger somehow.  
  
He turned around and looked back the way he came. There was the moon-  
dappled deer path meandering off into the distance, looking just as it  
had as he had walked it.  
  
He shrugged. The departing tension was making his imagination play  
tricks on him. He continued on down the path humming snatches of  
random melodies, determined to be relaxed.  
  
He did a pretty good job of it, too, until he came on the cottage.  
When he saw it all his hard-earned calm disappeared.  
  
The cottage was in the middle of a clearing. It appeared to be made  
out of bread.  
  
Cautiously he approached the quaint little structure. Yes, the walls  
were definitely loaves of bread. In fact, they looked like the hearty  
seven-grain bread Natalie favored for sandwiches. The roof was  
shingled in flat cakes, complete with icing and a decorative cookie  
border, and the windows looked like sheets of transparent sugar. The  
shutters were slabs of dark chocolate.  
  
He circled the building. Yes, it was made entirely from baked goods.  
Maybe it was some sort of advertising project for a baking company?  
But located out here in a national forest? Ridiculous, yet here it  
was.  
  
He was standing next to the front door (an enormous graham cracker)  
poking his finger at what looked like a ginger snap when the door flew  
open and a small figure appeared. Nick leaped backward in surprise.  
  
The figure wheezed, "Don't be frightened, young man, come in! There're  
more cookies inside!" Eyes bright as a raven's regarded him.  
  
Nick backed away a few more steps. "Uh, no thanks." The figure was a  
wizened crone dressed in black, stooped over with age. Her face was  
wrinkled and framed by long gray hair twisted into a messy knot at the  
back. Flour powdered her skirt.  
  
"Oh," she crowed happily, "he has a nice voice! What luck! Tell me,  
young man, do you do recitations?"  
  
"No," Nick started to say when she lunged forward and grabbed his  
wrist. She dragged him through the door with a strength far greater  
than he would have ever expected, and slammed the door behind him. It  
thudded shut with a finality Nick would never have thought possible  
from a graham cracker.  
  
"Because I have a book I would love to hear a male voice read from,"  
she continued on as if he hadn't spoken. "Wonderful poems! Just made  
for a nice tenor like yours!" She dragged him farther into the room  
and pushed him onto a chair, which Nick was relieved to see was made  
of wood, not baked goods.  
  
Nick looked around to find he was in a spacious room, apparently the  
only one in the house. Besides his chair there was a large table, a  
huge wood-burning brick oven in the corner, and two small, comfortable  
beds on the far wall. Shelves along the wall held baking supplies and  
other unidentifiable things. A sulky looking young girl of about eight  
sat on one of the beds.  
  
He turned to his unwanted hostess and said, "Ma'am, I'm just passing  
through. I'm sorry to have intruded, but you have a very, um,  
interesting house here, and I couldn't resist looking at..." He  
stopped abruptly as she thrust a tattered hard cover book into his  
hands with a bookmark sticking out.  
  
She pointed to the book. "Read!" she commanded. The harmless-old-lady  
aura had disappeared; now she looked downright nasty.  
  
"But..." he started to object but was interrupted.  
  
"Read, or you won't be leaving here very soon. *That* one wouldn't  
read for me," she added, pointing at the corner. With a shock Nick saw  
a gleaming skull grinning at him in the dim light. He glanced over at  
the girl, who was staring at him intently. 'Read,' she mouthed  
silently. He opened the book and groaned to himself. He cleared his  
throat and started,  
  
"By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,  
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;  
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:  
"Come you back, you British soldier: Come you back to Mandalay!"  
  
And so Nick proceeded to read, at first reluctantly but then with  
increasing gusto as his dramatic side asserted itself, Kipling's  
rousing poem, "Mandalay." There was no getting around it, the man had  
a way with meter. At some point Nick stood and strode around the room,  
making dramatic sweeping gestures with his free arm as he recited the  
rolling stanzas.  
  
"On the road to Mandalay,  
Where the old Flotilla lay,  
With our sick beneath the awnings when we  
Went to Mandalay!  
Oh the road to Mandalay,  
Where the flyin'-fishes play,  
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer  
China 'crost the Bay!"  
  
"Ooooo!" the crone squealed, clapping her hands in delight. "You're  
*good*! And I just love the way you do the dialects! Another!"  
  
For the next several hours Nick worked his way through the more  
popular Kipling works like "Boots," "If," and Gunga Din," then into  
the less common poems, and finally into the short stories. Every time  
he tried to call an end to his performance and leave the crone lost  
her childlike delight at his performance and threatened dire  
consequences if he stopped. He tried to assert some of his vampiric  
charm on her, to no avail -- she was immune, apparently. He didn't  
want to do anything more drastic because of the little girl, who by  
now was lying bored on her bed, staring at the ceiling.  
  
A quick check of his mental clock told him it was midnight. If he  
tarried any longer he wouldn't get home before dawn. This was getting  
ridiculous.  
  
Finally, after Nick had finished "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi," she called a  
halt. "Can't have your voice getting raspy, now, can we? I think 'The  
Man Who Would Be King' for tomorrow, eh?"  
  
Nick stood up. "Oh, no, that's it. No more Kipling from me -- I have  
to get home." He moved towards the door.  
  
The crone chuckled unpleasantly. "Oh, didn't I tell you? You can't  
leave here -- ever."  
  
That was the final straw. Nick let his eyes flare as he turned on her.  
"I'm leaving, and don't try to stop me! You don't know what you're  
dealing with here, old woman, and pray that you never find out." Out  
of the corner of his eye he saw the young girl shaking her head in  
disgust. He dismissed her from his mind and tried to pull the door  
open.  
  
It wouldn't open. He pulled harder. Nothing.  
  
"It's a graham cracker, for Pete's sake!" he exclaimed angrily, and  
rattled the door in its frame to no avail. He went around the room  
trying to break the sugar windows, but they might as well have been  
made of bullet-proof Lexan. The old woman just stood with her arms  
folded and watched the show. He kicked the bread walls, but they  
simply dented a bit then sprang back into shape.  
  
Finally he ceased his efforts and stood, panting slightly, in the  
center of the room. "Who ARE you?!?" he yelled at the old woman.  
  
"Are you quite through?" she asked sweetly.  
  
He growled.  
  
"My name is...well, that's unimportant. Most people hereabouts call me  
the Wicked Witch of the Woods. Catchy, don't you think?"  
  
"There are no wicked witches in Toronto. Or Ontario, for that matter,"  
Nick stated mulishly.  
  
"Well, that might be true, but then, you're not in Ontario any longer,  
are you?" the Wicked Witch said with a nasty smile.  
  
"What do you mean, I'm not in Ontario? Of course I'm in Ontario!"  
  
She sighed. "Okay, let's go over this step by step. What day is it?"  
  
Nick stared at her and said, "Friday. My day off."  
  
"Friday what?"  
  
"Friday evening. No wait...it's Friday the thirteenth! Shit!"  
  
"Language," she said reprovingly, gesturing to the little girl. "Yes  
indeed, not only Friday the thirteenth, but Friday the thirteenth and  
a full moon. Talk about auspicious! So there you were wishing for some  
peace and quiet and to get away from it all...and you did. You really  
ought to be more careful what you wish for, young man. Sometimes you  
get it."  
  
"But, but..." he sputtered.  
  
"Dear me, didn't that unpleasant man who made you a vampire ever tell  
you about the rest of the supernatural world? Surely you didn't think  
that vampires were the only ones out there, now, did you?"  
  
Oh, great. Yet another lesson he had never been taught, he thought  
resentfully.  
  
The Wicked Witch gestured to the skull in the corner. "That one wished  
to get away from it all, too, you know." She smacked her lips  
reminiscently. "He was a lousy reader, but he did taste quite nice."  
  
"You *ate* him?" Nick asked in horror.  
  
She said impatiently, "Of course I ate him! Just like I'm going to eat  
you, and the girl, and that nasty little boy out in the barn. Why else  
would I be rotting away out here in this ridiculous house? It's bait!  
Do you think it's easy to catch victims in town and eat them? They get  
very wily, I'll have you know, and before you know it they're chasing  
you out of town with torches and pitchforks. You of all people should  
know how important it is to hunt with discretion."  
  
Automatically Nick protested, "I don't do that any more."  
  
The Wicked Witch stared at him. "So you're *that* one! Well, the self-  
righteousness adds a somewhat bitter flavor to the dish, but still,  
I'm told that vampires are quite delectable. A bit tricky to cook --  
there's that turning-to-dust problem to get around, but still worth  
the effort in the end.  
  
"But that's in the future. For now you're too talented to cook, so  
make yourself comfortable." She made a complex series of gestures and  
was suddenly holding a dark green bottle. "Here's some refreshment for  
you." She thrust the bottle into Nick's hand. "I have some little  
chores to do elsewhere. Be good, now!" She bustled out the door, and  
Nick and the girl were alone.  
  
Nick sniffed the bottle cautiously. Cow. The Wicked Witch seemed to  
have all the bases covered. Disconsolately he sat down in a chair near  
the bed where the little girl was lying. He looked over at her -- she  
was wearing a tattered dirndl and blouse, had long, blonde braids, and  
was very thin.  
  
"Hi," she said, when she saw his gaze on her. "My name's Gretel. Are  
you really a vampire?"  
  
Nick nodded. "Yeah. Don't worry, though. I'm one of the nice ones. My  
name's Nick, by the way." He offered his hand the girl shook it  
gravely. "Why are you here?"  
  
Gretel sighed. "My brother and I were abandoned in the forest by my  
evil stepmother. She tried it a couple of times, but before we always  
managed to find our way back home. This time my brother decided to use  
bread crumbs to mark our trail." She made a face. "I tried to tell him  
that the birds would eat them and we'd never find the trail again, but  
nooooo, he had to use bread crumbs. He's two years older than me, and  
he thinks he knows everything," she added confidingly.  
  
"Let me guess -- his name is Hansel, right?"  
  
"Well, Hans, really, but we call him Hansel. He's ten. How'd you  
know?" she asked curiously.  
  
Nick sighed. "Let's just say I've heard stories like yours before." He  
eyed the nearest window speculatively. "I wonder..."  
  
"Don't bother," Gretel interrupted him. "She's put a spell on the  
cottage so that it can't be destroyed. That's how it can stay up in  
the first place, otherwise the rain would melt it, don't you think?"  
  
"Oh. Good point. So what do you do around here?"  
  
"She makes me do the dishes and clean the cottage and stuff. I also  
take food out to my brother -- he's locked in the barn being fattened  
up." She giggled. "She's really nearsighted, so we've been fooling  
her. She never goes into the barn to look at him, she just has him  
hold his hand out the window and she feels a finger to see if he's  
getting fat. We've been using one of that guy's finger bones." She  
pointed to the skull. "She's really upset that he's still skinny --  
yesterday she was asking him if he had a tapeworm or something."  
  
Nick smiled. "Well, maybe I can help you both escape."  
  
The girl said soberly, "I hope so. I'm really glad you came along,  
'cause you might keep her busy with reading those silly poems, and  
that gives us some more time." She shivered. "I think she's getting  
hungry again."  
  
Nick put his arm comfortingly around her thin shoulders. "It'll be  
okay, you'll see..."  
  
Just then the door blew open with a crash and the Wicked Witch bustled  
back in, clutching some packages. "Oh, getting acquainted, I see!" she  
said cheerfully, putting the packages on the table. "Mister Vampire,  
whatever your name is, I think it's time you got in the cellar. I  
don't want you spontaneously combusting when the sun comes up!" She  
lifted up a rug to reveal a trapdoor. "Down you go!" She thrust  
another book into his hands. "And why don't you take 'The Man Who  
Would be King' with you? You can practice before you go to sleep." She  
smiled. "I'm so looking forward to tomorrow's reading." She pushed him  
unceremoniously through the trapdoor and slammed it shut. It was  
locked with a decisive 'click.'  
  
Nick landed with a thud on the dirt floor. A little light filtered  
down from the cracks around the trapdoor, just enough for him to see  
his surroundings.  
  
The cellar was stacked with storage boxes and jars full of what Nick  
supposed were magical ingredients and potions. There was also a pile  
of blankets in the corner that could serve as his bed for the day. The  
place smelled vile, but he had half-expected to find it full of bones,  
so relatively speaking it wasn't so bad.  
  
He threw the book down and plopped onto his makeshift bed. Sighing, he  
pulled the cork from the bottle and took a swig. Not bad. At least it  
looked like she'd keep him fed -- fattening him up? Obviously she  
didn't know everything about vampires, or she'd know they couldn't  
gain weight.  
  
He pushed the blankets into a more comfortable configuration. How was  
he going to get out of this one, he grumped silently. All he had  
wanted was some peace and quiet and a pleasant walk in the woods, and  
instead he found himself in the middle of a fairy tale in an alternate  
reality.  
  
Life was never simple for him.  
  
He sighed, lay back, and went to sleep.  
  
==============  
  
He was wakened by a loud thump as the trapdoor was flung open. "Wakey,  
wakey, Mister Vampire Whatever-Your-Name Is! The sun just set!" the  
Wicked Witch called cheerfully.  
  
"My name is Nicholas!" Nick yelled crossly at the ceiling, rubbing the  
sleep out of his eyes. He was never much of a morning person, and he  
didn't think he'd be getting his wake-up shower today, and so was  
feeling rather cranky.  
  
"Nicholas, then. Come on up, and remember to bring the book! Your  
breakfast is on the table."  
  
Grumbling, Nick stood up, pulled his clothes straight, stretched, and,  
book in hand, climbed the ladder into the cottage. He definitely  
didn't feel like reciting Kipling, now or in the near future or  
perhaps even ever again.  
  
Up in the main room he found the Wicked Witch setting out a tray of  
food, presumably for the as yet unseen boy in the barn. A plate of  
savory stew, bread, butter, fruit cup, and a piece of cake were laid  
out attractively on the wicker tray. A quick wave of the hand produced  
a daisy in a bud vase. "It's the little touches that make it special,  
don't you agree?" WW (as Nick had come to think of her) said with  
satisfaction. "Here, girl, take this to your brother! And mind you,  
don't snitch anything -- I'll know! Your gruel will be waiting for you  
when you get back."  
  
Nick watched the girl struggle to pick up the laden tray, then  
offered, "Here, let me help Gretel. It looks a bit heavy for such a  
tiny girl."  
  
"Why, such a chivalrous gesture! By all means, take it out to the barn  
with her." She snickered. "You're not thinking of sneaking away, are  
you? Because, just in case you were, I better tell you about the spell  
that makes it impossible for anything larger than a plump pigeon to  
get in or out of the clearing. All directions," she cast her eyes up,  
down and around meaningfully, "are covered."  
  
"It never even entered my mind," Nick vowed, mentally saying a string  
of very, very bad words.  
  
Together he and Gretel went outside and around the corner of the  
cottage to the barn. This was a more conventional structure, being  
made of wood instead of confections. A boy's face could be seen  
peering though a small window.  
  
"You're late," he complained.  
  
"Oh, excuse me, Hansel, I had nothing better to do than to jump up and  
down and ask the Wicked Witch to hurry and fix you your supper!" she  
snapped. "Gee, I hope you enjoy it while I'm eating my bowl of gruel,"  
she added sarcastically.  
  
Nick slid the tray into the window. The boy eyed him suspiciously.  
"Who're you?"  
  
"My name's Nick, and I'm a prisoner, too," Nick said matter-of-factly.  
"I hope I can get us all out of here, though. And soon, or I may be  
too crazy to care."  
  
Gretel explained, "She's making him read those awful Victorian poems."  
  
"Oh, bummer," the boy said, tucking into the stew. "Well, it could be  
worse. She could still be nuts about that 'It was a dark and stormy  
night' guy."  
  
Nick shuddered. Nonstop Kipling was not his choice in literature, but  
he'd take it any day over Edward Bulwer-Lytton. "Enough of that. Let's  
see about making a plan to get out of here," he said.  
  
"She told me that she was almost ready for me, skinny or not," the boy  
said between mouthfuls. "She likes to come out here and tell me what  
spices she's going to use. She's getting lots of ideas from something  
she sees in her crystal ball -- I think she called it the Food  
Channel, whatever that means. She keeps yelling 'bam!' and 'kick it up  
a notch!' and giggling."  
  
Nick grimaced at the thought of all the garlic that might mean. "Well,  
I have an idea, I think. Based on what the stories say, all we have to  
do is get her to stick her head in the oven to check the fire. When  
she does, we push her in and she gets roasted herself."  
  
'Euwww" the children chorused, then Gretel said doubtfully, "Isn't  
that sort of mean?"  
  
Nick stared at the children. "She's going to *eat* you! She ate that  
other guy, the one whose skull stares at us from the corner! Don't you  
think that calls for extreme measures?"  
  
"I suppose," said Hansel. "It's just that we were taught all these  
violence avoidance techniques in school, that is, before our evil  
stepmother pulled us out of class and made us work all day gathering  
firewood in the forest and then abandoned us to our deaths from  
exposure and starvation without a second thought. It sort of goes  
against the grain, you know."  
  
Nick said hastily, "Well, I'm all for avoiding violence, but let's  
give this a shot, okay? I'll try to think of a Plan B so that we don't  
have to kill her. How's that?"  
  
"Okay," Gretel said. Hansel nodded his assent, his mouth being full of  
cake.  
  
"Okay, then. Let's do it!" Nick said in a coach's-speech-before-the-  
big-game kind of voice.  
  
Together he and Gretel marched back to the cottage and went back  
inside. True to her word, Gretel's gruel and Nick's bottle were  
waiting on the table. The WW herself was sitting at the table reading  
a cookbook entitled, "Emeril's New New Orleans Cooking' and scribbling  
notes on a shopping list. When she saw them, she snapped the book shut  
and said brightly, "First you eat, then you read!"  
  
Try as he might, Nick could dawdle over his cow only so long, and the  
inevitable arrived. He picked up the book, turned to the first page,  
and cleared his throat.  
  
And then the Wicked Witch of the Woods made her biggest and final  
mistake. "Oh, wait just a second," she said. "I want to stoke the fire  
so it's nice and hot tomorrow morning. I finally have the perfect  
recipe for the boy." She got up from the table, picked up some sticks  
of wood, and opened the door of the big brick oven.  
  
Nick cast an apologetic look at Gretel, then leaped up from his chair  
and pushed the crone headfirst into the oven. There was a shriek, a  
huge flash of light, and then silence.  
  
"Oh, wow," breathed Gretel. "That was kewl!"  
  
Nick looked in the oven, but there was nothing to be seen except the  
dying embers of the fire. "Gee," he said wonderingly, "it looks like  
Wicked Witches are even more subject to spontaneous combustion than  
vampires!" He turned to Gretel. "I'm guessing the spells died along  
with her, so we're probably free to go."  
  
Suddenly the cottage began creaking and groaning. "Uh-oh," Nick said,  
"I think we better get out of here!" He grabbed the tiny girl under  
his arm and flew out the door, just before the whole structure crashed  
to the ground in a whoosh of Kipling and confectioner's sugar.  
  
"Hansel!" the girl screamed, all thoughts of sibling rivalry  
forgotten. She wriggled out of Nick's arms and rushed to the barn to  
rescue her brother, only to find that that structure was standing firm  
thanks to its being made of wood and not baked goods. The locked  
doors, though, sprang open by themselves, spewing forth a small  
stampede consisting of a cow, two goats, a sheep, several dozen  
chickens, and a somewhat portly, breathless boy. The animals ran  
through the clearing and into the woods, but the boy threw himself  
into his sister's arms. They hugged, kissed, then fell into a good-  
natured wrestling match, while Nick watched in amusement.  
  
After the joyous reunion died down, the three of them stood together  
looking at the soggy ruin of the Wicked Witch's cottage. "Well, now  
what do we do?" asked Gretel.  
  
"Would you like me to take you home?" Nick asked.  
  
"Well, I don't think our evil stepmother would be glad to see up show  
up," Hansel said. "And Dad was really sorry to see us abandoned, but  
he went along with it, anyway. I don't think either of them really  
want to see us again."  
  
But Nick was remembering how the rest of the fairy tale went. "Oh, I  
think you'll find a better reception than you expect at home," he said  
reassuringly. "And if I remember correctly, there are some valuables  
to be found here that will help your family's cash flow quite a bit."  
  
Hansel said, "Oh, do you mean the box of gold and jewels I found in  
the barn?"  
  
Nick and Gretel stared at him.  
  
"Well," he said modestly, "It was really boring being cooped up there  
all day, so I sort of dug around the floor for something to do and  
found some treasure."  
  
"Yes,' Nick said faintly, "That would be what I was talking about."  
  
And so it came to pass that Nick, with two children clutched under one  
arm, and a box of gold and jewels under the other, lifted off into the  
night sky in search of the children's home. After only an hour of  
flying in ever-increasing circles he saw a dim gleam of light in the  
forest that resolved into a modest cottage.  
  
"Home!" squealed Gretel. "Look, there's our cottage!"  
  
Nick landed and gently set the children on their feet. They ran to the  
humble cottage and pounded on the door. "Papa, we're home!" they  
cried.  
  
And in true fairy-tale fashion, their father flung open the door and  
welcomed them home with glad cries and open arms. The evil stepmother,  
also in true fairy-tale fashion, had conveniently died of nastiness  
several weeks before, leaving the way open for the poor, formerly  
pussy-whipped widower to love his children as he had always wanted to.  
The gold and jewels were just icing on the cake, a turn of phrase Nick  
was careful not to use in case it traumatized the children even more  
than they already were.  
  
After all the tumult of welcome died down, and Nick had been duly  
thanked and his bravery and resourcefulness admired (not to mention  
his excellent speaking voice), Nick posed the one remaining question.  
  
"How do I get home?" he asked.  
  
"Where do you live?" asked the widower.  
  
"Toronto," Nick answered, although he knew it would have no meaning in  
this alternative universe.  
  
"Oh, that's just down the lane and to the left," the widower replied.  
"Look for the sign." At Nick's disbelieving stare, he continued, "The  
village constable was putting up signs a few weeks ago, and I noticed  
one that said 'Toronto' on it. No one I asked had ever heard of the  
place, but there it is."  
  
Nick stood up. "I guess that's a sign, pardon the pun, for me to  
leave, then. I hope you all have a nice life." He looked sternly at  
the widower. 'Choose your next wife a little more carefully!"  
  
The widower blushed. "Yeah," he mumbled, "but you wouldn't believe how  
hot she was..."  
  
Nick's look stopped him before he said anything else. "I'll be off,  
then. Good-bye, Hansel. Bye, Gretel." He hugged them and took his  
leave.  
  
He turned down the rustic lane, and eventually came to a signpost with  
'Toronto' written on it, with a finger pointing to the left. He looked  
at it, considered the implications of a signpost meant apparently only  
for him, and shrugged. There were Greater Powers operating here --  
that was obvious. Who was he to question them? He turned left and  
headed into the moonlit forest.  
  
==============  
  
That Sunday night Nick slid open the elevator door to see his best  
friend and confidante, Natalie Lambert, standing there with a bag of  
Chinese takeout and a movie in her hands. "Hi, Nick, how was your  
weekend?" she inquired brightly as she entered his loft.  
  
"Oh," he said carelessly. "Um, a bit different. But quiet," he added,  
to forestall the inevitable questions. How would he ever explain it,  
even to Natalie, who believed in vampires?  
  
She put the food down on the kitchen table and held out the movie. "I  
got a good one this week, Nick. I saw it a long time ago in the  
theatre. It has Michael Caine and Sean Connery in it!" He eyes glowed  
at the mere mention of one of her private obsessions.  
  
"What is it?" Nick asked, taking the movie from her. He glanced at the  
title on the plastic box and went very quiet.  
  
"What's wrong, Nick?" Natalie asked, concerned.  
  
"Nat, I'm sorry, but you've got to go. No movies tonight." He picked  
up the takeout and pressed it into her unwilling hands, then  
shepherded her into the still-open elevator. He gave her the copy of  
'The Man Who Would be King' and pressed the Down button. "Not tonight,  
Nat," he said as the door slid shut. " I've got a headache."  
  
Finis  
  
==================================  
  
Plaudits, criticisms, and well-rhymed poetry to:  
nancykam@mediaone.net  
  
==================================  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
